


Sharing Scars

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Martim Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Martim week: body, Past Child Abuse, also tim is trans :) there is no transphobia or trauma related to that <3, both their canon typical trauma, martim week: triggers/trauma, more specific warnings in notes, set in S1, tender fluff also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29359740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: martim week continuesss day 4 we have a mashup of the body and trauma promptsspecific cws in the end notes.also i use the f word for cigs its not like a slur in context but i figured i would say in case anyone doesnt want to read thatx
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	Sharing Scars

**Author's Note:**

> martim week continuesss day 4 we have a mashup of the body and trauma prompts 
> 
> specific cws in the end notes. 
> 
> also i use the f word for cigs its not like a slur in context but i figured i would say in case anyone doesnt want to read that 
> 
> x

The first scar they end up sharing is the first one that just happens to come up. Early on, simply an evening in with a movie. Martin takes his watch off since it’s been a long day and it’s annoying him. 

That’s when, in the middle of a film that, with a bright scene and a song that doesn’t suit this discovery at all, Tim learns that Martin has a couple of round little crater scars on the outside of his wrist. Google had told him years ago, and Google tells Tim when he checks, that they’re from cigarette ends. His sadness, bitterness, nothing quite reaching anger is very quiet and restrained when he explains this on the sofa with Tim's fatally curious lips pressed against them. 

Tim bristles instantly, feels like hissing and screaming at whoever the  _ fuck  _ is responsible. He has some idea, and he doesn't have Martin's patience or his resignation. Martin cups his cheek to calm him down, turning the scars away from Tim's face and rubbing circles with his thumb. The same circles he traces on his own palms or knees sometimes when he's stressed. 

He probably doesn't want to be asked, but Tim can't not ask him, and he sighs when he says he can't remember.  _ Honestly, Tim, I don't remember. It's gone now. _ His mum has told him it was his father’s doing. Only she can’t remember when or where, or what it was he'd supposedly done to deserve it. Martin shrugs and Tim isn't convinced he believes it either. All they both know is his mum still smokes when the care staff manage to wheel her outside. 

He only has a couple other marks on his skin, which is almost entirely unblemished, un-inked, un-pierced.  _ I wanted an earring when I was fourteen,  _ he snickers,  _ like one of the Backstreet Boys.  _ But of course -  _ wasn’t brave enough,  _ he shrugs,  _ mum, work, school. You know what people are like.  _ Tim, of course, says he should get one now, if he wants to, but really he thinks it's quite sweet, if a little sad. The image of Martin writing poetry in the corridor and worrying people would think he was gay because he got an earring is pretty funny to him. They both manage to laugh at that. 

There are a few thin white slices on his upper forearm which prompt a different reaction. Tim tries not to get angry, much as he wants to rage at the world that made his friend pick up a razor. Instead he sits still, holding Martin’s arm, squeezing his hand, and lets his eyes well up instead. 

He knows it would probably be better to not make a fuss. Martin would probably rather he didn't make a fuss. But that's the worst part; the way he shifts against having his arm held still, the way he's trying to subtly turn it over and move fast enough to blur the memories. The way he'd moved so so quietly from Tim's bathroom to Tim's bed looking exposed in Tim's T-shirt.  _ I've never seen this much of his arms, _ Tim had thought, not at all innocently, completely ignorant of what he might see there. 

He doesn’t kiss these ones, because he thinks that might be a bit much to make Martin suffer through. Instead he wipes his own eyes and opens up the covers for them both to hide under. 

Night after night later he can appreciate the rest. As well as the scars there's his thick, soft hair. The couple of moles that dot his bicep and shoulder. The freckles on his forearm. The way the underside of his arm is impossibly even paler than the pale on top. 

He laughs bitterly when this is pointed out and demands Tim take him to the Costa Del Sol to remedy it. 

‘I burn like a lobster,’ he says, ‘but when it fades I'll be a regular Hasslehoff and you'll have nothing to complain about.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ Tim promises. He kisses the whole length of Martin’s arm, fingertips to shoulder, just to prove it.

It’s not like he can’t relate either. He flushes badly when he drinks.  _ Very _ badly. So badly he takes a compact with him on nights out and can't even regret it when Martin bursts out laughing.  _ So when you said ‘powder your nose’ you actually meant-  _ So they’ve got that in common. Martin goes a bit pink from drinking too, but then his skin shows the slightest flush at anything. It blossoms in beautiful uneven patches over his chest, makes perfect circles on his knees. Tim loves it, kissing it, rubbing his cheek on it when he hasn’t shaved until he’s pushed away with giggles. He’s definitely earned a bit of teasing back about his own lobster cheeks, and he doesn’t mind it in the slightest. 

With the lights off and Martin curled around him, his hand sandwiched between Tim's knees, they list the other sunny places they could go to turn red and bring out freckles. Turkey. Greece. Florida. Martin hates the heat, actually, he admits into the back of Tim’s neck, if they’re not kidding about the holiday. He suggests the Lake District, the West Coast of Ireland. Tim scoffs and insists they're better off in Malaysia. The first hint of the topic turning to his own scars, which are a little less visible. _Monsoon season,_ he suggests when it gets a bit personal, _you like the rain.  
  
_

Tim has a scar on his knee from a slightly too hard shove Danny had given him onto the pavement and begged him not to tell. Of course he hadn't, and he tells Martin now with a laugh in his voice. An only slightly sad one. He can talk about Danny without instantly sounding sad, apparently, since Martin doesn’t make a sympathetic face or reach for his cheek. Instead he drops a peck on the scar and points out that Tim  _ probably deserved to get snitched on.  _

_ ‘ _ Ah,’ Tim chuckles, pulling his chin up, ‘but you see, in this case, it was the not-snitches that got the stitches. And I did need stitches.’   
  
  


Sometimes he wishes he wasn't the only one who got angry, because he feels like an idiot being comforted when actually he wants to  _ do _ things,  _ fix _ things. When he's angry for exactly this reason - that Martin comforts angry people.

‘Don't you want to tell her to just go fuck herself?’ he demands, far too loudly. ‘How can you be so calm about it all?’ 

‘About what?’ Martin just sighs, ‘that someone hurt me? That I was a lonely teenager? What would that actually do for anyone? It's fine, now. I'm fine now.’ 

He doesn't like shouting though. Which makes Tim's chivalrous anger very much the opposite of fine. So Tim lets him make them both tea, lets him cry about supposedly unrelated things on his sofa. Tries to be gentle rather than fiercely protective with his hugs. Tries not to cling. 

He takes some of it out on Jon instead. Harasses him about the fags and plies him with gum instead. Shoves the ashtray at him in the pub garden and grabs the ends from his mouth to stub them out before Martin gets back with the next round. He knows this must be confusing; he’s never touched a death stick sober but consistently bummed them off Jon after a few pints in their research days. He doesn't explain it. It feels cathartic. He’s noticed the way Jon’s frowns and grumbles about  _ productivity _ and  _ useless  _ poke at more of Martin’s less visible scars. 

Maybe he does cling, a bit. It’s alright: they’re both big cuddlers. 

Tim gets a bit of acne still, on top of his old scars. Martin says he's got no idea what Tim is pointing at when they brush their teeth together, but Tim has always had it so he supposes he's more used to looking for problems with his own face. That or the slight awe he feels that someone this gorgeous is with him is reciprocated. It’s blinding sometimes.

He clings he clings he clings because he won't let anyone else go. He won't freeze and lose someone else better than him.

  
  


His knee had split of course, bled everywhere, and he had cried and Danny had cried and his parents had argued very loudly over it all about whether he needed stitches. In the end it was only a couple, and Tim had told the nurse that he tripped. Then their parents had taken him and Danny for ice cream and they'd all laughed about it.  


Martin likes putting his hand there. His big palm seems to find Tim's kneecap easily whenever they're sat together. It's heavy, shy and purposeful. In bed it's firm and awestruck. Always like he's anchoring himself there. Tim is grateful for the anchor.  _ I won't lose him too _ , he thinks when he’s feeling soft.  _ Jesus H Christ on a stick he’s hot, _ he thinks when that hand is pushing his knees apart. He tells the story of the scar and Martin asks him what his favourite ice cream flavour is. (The answer is pandan and coconut, or failing that a solid dark chocolate.)

  
  


Neither of them get the biggest joy out of Mothers’ Day, or the decorations and cards that are up for weeks beforehand every time they nip in a shop. Tim sends his card early across the country, and one to his grandma across the world; the blank space inside seems acres to fill with just his own name. Martin dreads it for the whole week before and tries to pretend he doesn't when Tim goes to kiss his unhappy expression. He does that a lot when a peck comes out of nowhere.  _ What was that for?  _

It weirds Tim out a bit how often he does that, to be honest - looks surprised to be reminded people can see him, needs poking back to paying attention.  _ Oi, you with me? _ It's like he genuinely doesn't expect anyone to notice him. Which is probably how he gets away with the outrageous faces he pulls across the table or behind rude people's backs in public. It's certainly handy for wordless conversations from the other side of rooms, and every slight frown or sarcastic smile makes Tim want to storm over and kiss him. Maybe he likes it better that way - the privacy, the quiet intimacy with one person at a time. 

When that Sunday rolls around he heads off to Devon with a big bunch of Tesco flowers like he's trying to atone for something. When Fathers’ Day comes up they know enough about each other to pretend it doesn’t exist and just get on with it. Nothing worth spoiling the mood for. 

Tim uses specialist anti-dandruff shampoo now - a harsh reminder of hitting 30. Not that he never had dandruff before, just that now he's an adult with a salary who spends their money on things like scalp tonics, rather than a student causing bedlam on Grafton Street and dipping into his overdraft for j-bombs.

It's worth the money though. Martin’s hand bounces on his thick hair, pushes hard to get through it and claw a decent grip. Yeah, it's very very worth it. He doesn't comment on the bottles in the shower, though he has his own 2 in 1 for sleepovers now. Only tires his arms out reaching up a bit to lather up Tim's hair, and uses his hand like a little visor to keep soap getting in Tim's eyes when he rinses it out.

He shouldn’t do that really. All the soap irritates his skin, only he never caves to buy the nice stuff. His brain’s hardwired for the deals, he offers as an excuse, laughing as he fills the basket with 20p soap, 78p shampoo. He gets eczema on his hands when he's stressed or the office is particularly baltic. Tim shares his space heater, despite the fact Martin feels the cold a whole lot less than he does (‘Northern blood, love,’ he chuckles when he drapes his jacket over Tim's shoulders, ‘I’m not as soft as you’). When that doesn’t work Tim picks up prescription-strength emollient when he runs into Boots for a meal deal.

  
  


What Martin should do is shout, which he never does. People who don’t know him probably think he’s sweet, or a pushover. Well. He is sweet, and maybe he’s a bit of a pushover, but it’s not like he’s never got anything to say. He’ll hit back easily with snark, sass, sarcasm, petty jokes and passive aggressive snips, but he only ever shouts once. 

After a trip to Devon, when he probably would be crying except Tim is getting at him, getting at his mum and wanting to rip Martin’s railcard into pieces and throw his tobacco reeking clothes in the washing machine and push him to stand upright and do something, say something. Eventually he does say something - says yes fine he hates going he  _ hates _ going and hates the fact it takes a monumental herculean effort to get her to come outside with him and hates the smell of her fags and hates that Tim is yelling at him for all of this. Tim is not sure he deserves the explosion, or that it isn't just misdirected, but he'll take it, if only because Martin looks like that was cathartic when he slumps against the kitchen counter.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers.

‘Don't be sorry,’ Tim tells him gently, fiercely, giving him the hug he probably wanted to hold it all in instead of purging himself of all that guilty anger. ‘Don't be.’

  
  


Of course not all scars are sad. Tim’s surgery ones are something he's happy to show when he first gets the chance to strip his top off with someone he trusts; Martin doesn’t love his stretch-marks but he’s endlessly entertained by Tim’s practically pavlovian response to them. And not everything they learn about each other is painful in a real sense.

Martin hates spicy food. ‘I wish I could do it,’ he says, trying to be polite about Tim's cooking. ‘I’m English-Polish-Scottish, babe, you can't blame me for this.’ But he hates it and he can't cook for shit which brings Tim enormous pain in terms of meal planning. Rendang made mild just doesn't hit the same. 

Tim likes binging TV shows but Martin will fall asleep on his shoulder and insists they give time between each one to  _ preserve their dramatic integrity _ . Waiting another few days for a sleepover when the last episode ended on a cliffhanger is painful. 

He knows Martin finds his gym habit painfully annoying at times - he'd rather spend that time together and doesn't like the feeling of having been sat reading for those two hours when Tim gets in. He knows, but doesn’t really get, that Tim can’t understand how he  _ can  _ sit there reading for two hours, how painful it is for Tim to even imagine making it through without fidgeting. 

Tim knows it's painful for Martin to stand on the dance-floor sober, holding water and Tim’s phone for an hour, but neither of them change that because they always end up leaving arm in arm. 

Martin also finds it excruciatingly painful, and has said so, multiple loud times, that Tim takes his chips with cheese or plain, nothing else thank you. ‘What is your problem with gravy?!’ He demands, ‘what is your problem with  _ curry sauce!?’ _ Not being able to share an order after a night on the town is inconvenient, sure, but it's less painful than them both being out of commission if the food ends up dodgy.  _ Remember the kebab,  _ Tim days solemnly, gesturing with a plain chip to emphasis his point.

Tim hates the colour puce. Reminds him of his old school tie and the icky pale colour of the classroom walls. 

Martin hates when Tim cooks with hot oil. Too many splashes from deep fat fryers at pub and chippy jobs over the years. 

These are the kinds of scars that are mostly formed of in-jokes and routine.

  
  


Tim never quite shows his last scar. Or doesn’t explain it, anyway. He almost certainly reveals it. 

It’s a sunny morning, the crisp cold of autumn that’s really  _ really  _ nice after all the usual rain. They’re walking along the South Bank to take it in, extremities warm in scarves and hats and Tim’s chest warm from holding Martin’s hand. A lot of this kind of stuff seems to come out hand in hand. 

(He loves PDA, always has. Loves the defiance of doing it with other men. Usually he ends up being the one who’s less shy about it - he's had a lot of more bashful or simply reserved partners. It's not a dealbreaker, but to be honest he'd expected Martin to be one of those. On the contrary, it turns out the man is not just protective enough to put his arm between Tim and dickhead bouncers, but can be hotly possessive too. He holds Tim's hand tight as anything and doesn’t let go to do anything that would be easier with two. Whether he has the right is another question; it's probably a need born from another scar, another insecurity. He clings like one of them will vanish if he doesn't. And they haven’t talked about all that public, labels, exclusive stuff yet. But Tim thinks it's cute, so he doesn't examine the gift horse too closely.)

There’s a small crowd, which means there’s probably some kind of street performer. Martin’s not big into crowds, but he’s curious too, and indulgent, so he lets Tim pull them a couple steps forward. As soon as Tim peers over the heads in front of him he regrets ever being curious. 

There’s a mime at the front, all in black and white, silently gesturing over a covered table. The crowd is hushed, waiting, and Tim freezes in the weird quiet. His hand goes limp in Martin’s and it must feel weird but he can only dread the way it’s about to get worse. He can’t leave. He can’t move until-

The mime whips off the velvet table cloth and Tim feels vaguely sick. He turns around so viciously that the swish of their anoraks against each other is loud in his ear over the clapping crowd.  _ Shall I?  _ He feels Martin’s hand splay lightly over his bicep like he's soothing a frighted horse.

‘What's wrong?’ He asks at first, then he doesn't ask again, only steers Tim firmly away from the little crowd down to the river bank. It's too open for crying on the mud, but neither of them love the boxed in feeling of a corner. ‘Alright,’ he murmurs, rubbing those circles on Tim's arm, ‘alright.’

Next he pulls them over to a vender truck, gets tea for himself and a piping too sweet hot chocolate for Tim.

‘Sugar,’ he says, ‘that's what you need after a scare.’

Tim gives him the benefit of the doubt on that one, tells himself some science about glucose and anxiety and adrenaline. Really he thinks it only works because it's Martin and it’s effort. It’s nice. He burns the roof of his mouth on a melting marshmallow and forgets the clown for now. 

Instead he takes Martin’s hand, warm from the tea, and strokes his thumb over the crater scars. Martin hums happily, then snorts a laugh when Tim swings their arms between them. He kisses Tim’s cheek, then shoves his shoulder, knocking him against the wall as they head along the Thames. Tim shoves him back, and soon enough they’re giggling far too loud, sloshing tea and hot chocolate as they knock bodies back and forth, scars and all. 

**Author's Note:**

> cws:   
> \- child abuse, physical (burns) and canon typical emotional abuse/neglect   
> \- self harm scars  
> \- childhood injury (nothing too major, blood, stitches)  
> \- social anxiety  
> \- tims clown triggers  
> \- insecurity   
> \- body issues (vaguely mentioned)  
> \- financial insecurity 
> 
> i just........ hurt comfort is so intrinsic to them for me.... its the not having the full full story but being there for eachother now if not forever......🥺😩


End file.
